


Endure-Pity-Embrace

by executrix



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atfer his injury, Travis went to Rehab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endure-Pity-Embrace

Part One  
1  
The face is the man, isn't it? That's why an ancient duelist would slap his opponent's face. Although that is a trivial injury, it is an unforgivable insult. 

I'd seen a lot before then, but it was all I could do not to vomit over the stretcher. Not just at the botch that the field medic had made of the limb amputation, but the cavernous ruin of half the man's face. No, his face was ruined. Half of it was gone; there was still a bit of scaffolding on which…something…could be hung.

2  
It was days before he was out of the woods. I suppose he wasn't sure if he wanted to survive or not. Hospitals are full of bacteria that are as protean as our Andromedan enemies, and we get a step ahead with a new antibiotic, then they get a step ahead of us…

There was no saving what had been his eye, but I did a rather nice job reconstructing the cheekbone and the socket, and I'd been meaning to get up to speed on dental implants, so this was a good case to practice on.

The amputation had to be reformed three times, until there was barely enough left for neural control of a prosthesis. In his place, I don't know what I'd do—probably get the best Cosmetic they could fit, and take my half-pay pension and move to one of those Tropical Paradise planets away from everything. Palmeiro, perhaps—sit on the beach and eat papayas.

He opted for the experimental bio-weapons program. So far, we'd just been using prisoner material, so it took all sorts of paperwork to get permission to fit up one of those things to a senior officer.

3  
I quite got used to the sound. All hours, our star patient (most of our patients didn't stay long—they healed enough to be shipped off, or they were transferred to the Thirteenth Floor—the Eternal Care Unit) grimly walked the halls. The rattle came from him dragging the IV stand that tethered him to tubes—well, everywhere. He couldn't bear to stay in bed. He threw the painkiller tablets at the nurses, said he needed a clear head. So apart from anything else he was going mad from boredom.

Then he came into my office, when I was catching up on paperwork after an exhausting slate of procedures. "Look," he said, in a rough deep voice. "Either you get these tubes taken out or I'll rip them all out myself. Bad enough I can't wear my uniform, but this…this… **pinny** is the frozen limit." 

I glanced up from my desk. He was…there was some dignity even in the way he wore the faded blue hospital gown. Here and there, you could see the architecture of his body. Like the limestone or marble of a classical statue. The still-gleaming remnant, the part that hadn't been smashed.

"Space Commander…" I began.

"Don't butter me up," he said. "Space Captain…."

"Oh, didn't they tell you? You've been promoted. In fact, Divisional Commander Servalan will be along any day now to pin a medal on you."

"Pity they didn't save my arm," he said. I barely started to explain that even if he'd been promptly treated at a proper hospital…when he said, "No, I mean after they cut it off. So I could pin it on **her** and tell her to fuck herself with it."

Reflexively, I glanced around, but then I relaxed—I was far too senior to have a monitor in my private office—and guffawed.

With a grunt, he forced his prosthetic hand open and picked up the silver-framed photograph from my desk. "My wife and sons," I said.

"You've got everything," he said. 

"Yes, I've got everything," I parroted back to him. The good side of his face was turned away from me, so I don't know how he reacted to the deadness of my tone. Repenting at leisure.

4  
One of the nurses came running into my office—why can't the stupid bints use the commlink?

I found him in a heap in front of the en suite WC and vaporshower unit, the wind knocked out of him. 

"Nurse Pojokskov says you were trying to do press-ups," I said, opening his pyjama jacket. There'd be bruises there, but none of the ribs beneath the smooth skin were broken.

"I **was** doing press-ups," he said. "But I can't get used to the center of gravity of this bloody thing, and I slipped." 

"Here, sling your good arm 'round my neck," I said, and put my arms around his waist. "On three…" I said.

5  
He wasn't in his room; the Charge Nurse said that he often went into the stairwells and ran up and down the stairs. Luckily I found him quickly, before the packet in my hands had a chance to cool down.

"What's that?" he said, when the wonderful odor of garlic and herbs reached him.

"Sometimes there's a kebab-seller outside the front gate," I said. "I got us some supper." Hospital food, well, you know what it's like at the best of times. You'd think Space Command would get the best of everything, but what with the back-handers and the brothers-in-law and the valuables that got lost in shipment…

He was back in uniform, and the leather gleamed a little in the emergency light, taut against his body. I followed him down the stairwell. He looked none the worse for wear. If you didn't know, you'd think that it was a pair of biceps that stretched against the tight sleeves, not half flesh, half metal. 

"It's all right," I told the Charge Nurse. "You can just enter on the chart that his vital signs are normal."

We went back to his room. I wedged the chair under the door handle and switched off the Call light. 

"What are you still doing here this late? Important type like you," he asked, after we shared out the golden-crusted bread and savory, chewy cubes of…well, it didn't do to speculate too closely. 

"Because I can't bear to go home," I said simply. "You do what you have to, to get by, but I'm sick of lying all the time. I'm sick of being empty and alone and unsatisfied and always, always wanting…"

"If we were normal, we'd get what we wanted," he said.

"I can't believe that," I said. And his jacket was open and then his shirt was, part-way and then the flies of his trousers because there was no time, no time, he leaned back on the bed, he rolled over on top of me, he fought to turn the dark-side-of-the-moon half of his face away from me but I made him be kissed all over his face because now it was all precious to me and there was no time to dispute. And the rubber-and-metal hand gliding soft as a breeze over my balls. And the flesh and blood hand brutally working my prick, I shot in a moment, I sucked him and slid up to kiss him again and we couldn't stand to give away a second of the no time that there was but we knew better than to get caught.

6  
I didn't see him for two more days. It was only luck that took me past his door before he swaggered out it and out the front door.

"Oh, there you are, Doctor," he said, casually, fastening his overcoat with his original-issue hand. "I've been cleared for discharge, I'm on my way back to HQ to get my next posting. Thanks for all you did to rehabilitate me."

I didn't say "Come back," because I knew he wouldn't even if he could. I didn't say I'd try to get assignments where we could meet, because I didn't think I could get them. I didn't say "Go with God," because…well, I know what I am and how little the cause that I defend deserves the pain and courage of its supporters. There were people around us, so I simply said, "As you wish, as far as I can tell from your records, you're perfectly fit for active duty. Your medical record is imprinted in the Lazeron chip. There's every reason to believe that you can achieve an excellent cosmetic result if you schedule facial surgery for your next leave."

"No, he said. "Never. You were the one person ever to find me beautiful, and I will never change that face."

Part Two  
Servalan said that she needed a Space Surgeon. I suppose that makes sense: Ensor needed the batteries in his wind-up heart replaced.

And then she said that it would be cheaper to steal the little computer than to pay for it. Which is self-evidently true of anything, isn't it? It's the foundation of our Way of Life.

And she told me that he was dead. Murdered. His family, disgraced. 

Lucky that I've only half a face to keep expressionless, isn't it? I'm deeply glad she finds me unbeautiful. 

Robert was dead already. There was nothing to be done. 

I have nothing left. Not even the memories that she ruined.

Only Blake matters now.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Vice is a monster of so frightful a mien_  
>  As to be hated needs but to be seen;  
> Yet seen too often, familiar with her face,  
> We first endure, then pity, then embrace. (Pope, "Essay on Man")
> 
>  
> 
> _BLAKE: His name was Maryatt. According to his ID he was a Space Surgeon in the Federation Medical Corps. He's got a double-A security clearance! He's got a pass for any area in Space Command. […] Some pictures. A woman and two children._


End file.
